


queen to f7, checkmate

by civilorange



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, Pick Your Pairing, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 09:09:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14912540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilorange/pseuds/civilorange
Summary: “It wasn’t you,” he’s saying, but there’s something lingering and dark in his eyes. Maybe he can smell the blood on your hands—under your nails—like you can. The hint and promise of who it belonged to.Her, them—everyone.// or: Sometimes the heroes don't win and sometimes not everyone makes it out alive.





	queen to f7, checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> blame **randomthingsthatilike123**

The sun’s bright and the sky blue—it slides off the bronze of your skin before slipping inside and into each and every one of your molecules. You’re warm, and happy—and so many things that you didn’t think possible until _now_. Until Sunday picnics, and surprise birthday parties, and midnight movies—until all those fantastically human things that you thought were out of your reach.

Just beyond your fingertips when you felt brave enough to reach for them.

Inches, and centimeters, and half-thought breaths of air.

But that’s the past, and this is _now_ —your _new_ now. Your arms are wrapped around the woman you love, and the curve of her feels perfect against your chest. The round of her shoulders, the length of her spine—even the little give in her belly that she insist isn’t there.

Everything—all of it.

It’s perfect.

“Stop,” she murmurs, if it could be considered words. Her face half turned into a pillow that gives, and gives, and gives when she burrows. You smile into a curtain of hair and tug her just a little bit closer, tucking your nose up behind her ear so that you might breathe her in. “Stop it.”

You laugh, because she sounds so _serious_ when she’s half-asleep and has aspirations toward nothing that isn’t going _back_ to sleep.

“I’m not doing anything,” you say, innocent as the day is long.

You are—you’re running careful fingers along the curve of her hip, and the dip of her waist—finding her sleep warm and tempting. Kissing the side of her neck softly, dragging your nose up and to the line of her jaw—your favorite place if you’re ever asked. You ache—every part of you—your skin bruised with something tender, and you muscles burning with it. You feel human—horribly, delightfully human.

“You’re here,” soft and raspy, a scratch of words that drag up and out of her almost against her will—and it makes you feel powerful. You have this woman—she’s _yours_ —and it’s more heady than any superpower, any invulnerability. _This_ is power—loving, and needing, and hoping. “That’s enough.”

You smile, so stupidly happy.

“You hurt me,” you pout, kissing the edge of her jaw before rumbling a little growl and biting her throat—she moans, back arching and fingers curl half-crooked into your hair. There’s half a moment where she seems to consider pushing you away—but it’s only a heartbeat’s time, a single thump of her human heart—and then she’s tugging you close and folding into you.

“Kara,” the way she says your name—the way she rolls it over and around her tongue like a silver bullet, straight past your invulnerable skin and into your smoldering heart. You burn with her, with her words, with the smell of her—expensive shampoo, and just a _hint_ of her perfume on her throat, and the sleep warmth of her skin.

You begin sliding your hand up her side—curve, dip, ribs—and then you’re stopped—you whine, a pitiful sound, a rumble at the back of your throat until you realize it’s her finger. She’s laughing, a rusty sound that makes you burn with something you couldn’t even begin to define—hot, and deep, and filling you. With both your hands captured and unmoving, you nip at her shoulder.

“Kara.”

A cloud drift across the sun and you watch at the bedroom slips into shadows—long crawling ones across polished hardwood floors. The lack of direct light makes you skin pebble, a shiver crawling up your spine until you whine and dig your nose into soft smelling hair. There’s a brightness behind your eyelids, turning them pink and translucent, but you’re still cold—…

“Kara,” again, softer, far-away. “Come on.”

You frown, a prickle at the back of your neck—like cold air, but it’s spring. The chill feels artificial, feels wrong, but you can’t put your finger on it. The cloud is still in front of the sun, and the sky doesn’t seem blue anymore—it’s black, maybe gray, and you don’t recognize it. There’s nothing celestial about it, no hint of hidden stars that you have always been able to see during the day—no twinkle of far off forevers.

“Kara.”

It’s not coming from the woman in your arms—it’s not coming from _now_ —it feels like it belongs in yesterday, maybe tomorrow. Somewhere far away from here—without spring breezes and mid-morning sun.

Your fists clench, and the soft skin that had been against your palms is gone—there’s only grit, and a tacky warmth. A stick that has your fingers half stuck together—it isn’t important, nothing is important, because you blink away the clouding afternoon, shake your head through the afternoon breeze and you’re…

…you’re here.

The air is artificial and you’re sitting in a room without light—when you blink your eyes open everything is red, the light splashing color up onto every gray surface. Every cement fixture. The bulb blister and the heat burning, but you feel weak and everything inside you aches.

“Kara.” It’s J’onn, he’s standing just outside the color—his face folded into the dark, and you can’t even make him out when you squint. His eyes are pricks of white in the shadows, and you try to same something but your mouth protests—your teeth feel loose, and you tongue tastes metal.

Blood.

You’re missing a molar, a gouge taken out of your tongue on the side, and when you open your lips they crack and blood slips through—red, red in the light and it doesn’t even feel like you’re when it _drip, drips_ onto the cement. Black on gray in red—you watch the puddle expand; red gone black on gray.

“Kara,” he’s saying, but he seems so distant—too far away, and when you look up, he’s closer. The red beginning to highlight his brow—splashing and spreading as he steps closer. “Stop it.” The same tone as your lover—you realize—low, and whispered, and the tone is right, but the meaning makes the difference. He’s rasping, almost a croak, and the red light shows the bruising on his neck—the massacre that is his face.

Your eyes feel dry, but you can’t blink—can’t look away—you feel the blood underneath your nails and only the fresh blood is yours. There’s brown stains covering you—in your hair, on your skin—and you can taste the violence in the air. It’s seeping into your skin and you don’t want to know—you can’t know—you can’t—…

“Kara,” will people stop _saying your name_. You’re not a wounded animal, you’re not a skittish victim—you’re…you’re…

_Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds._

“Who?” You ask, not bothering to swipe the blood off your lips, not minding when it slips out the edge of your mouth to drip off your chin and down the side of your neck.

“Kara,” he’s close enough now that you realize his eyes are haunted—little marbles reflecting all your own horror back at you.

“Stop saying my name!” You yell, your voice cracking and your throat burning—the words trip, and spill, and you almost don’t recognize it. It doesn’t _sound_ like you, at least not how you remember. “Who.”

The what, where, and why mean less than nothing right now—because you need names. Especially because he doesn’t want to give them. There’s an ache in your chest, a burning _nothing_ that’s waiting to be filled—a yawning hole that’s salivating at the thought of devouring you whole.

“Everyone,” you can tell he doesn’t mean to say it by how he steps back—his boot squeaking through a bit of blood that’s splattered. He looks devastated, and begins—names you recognize, men and women who work at the DEO, a few who lived in your apartment building, co-workers at CatCo. But you’re listening for very specific names—and then they come…

 _Winn, James, Mon El, Lois, Clark_ …

Everything hurts, and everything’s wrong—but there’s important names missing…

…But not for long.

“Alex,” he struggles to get her name out, rattles over it like rust has kicked up inside him and scratched the inside of his throat. Your howl, blood splashing on the ground, your knees ache as you drop to them on cement—you hurt, everything hurts, but this is worst of all. This new damage that’s inside, and outside, and everywhere that could be thought of as you. Two more name, two more name.

You miss much of what he says, miss the sentence—but you don’t care.

The what, where, and why mean less than nothing.

“Cat and Lena,” there—the final nail, the end of today and the dawn of tomorrow.

You sob, a racking sound that hollows you out—blood dribbles off your lips, thick with saliva as you bay. An inhuman vibration living in your chest and spilling into your muscles, and bones, and blood. You’re molten and burning up—the red sinks into you, but you appreciate the hurt. Desperate for the damage. You can’t feel anything beyond skin deep—you’re cold and empty inside.

You strain—trying to hear beyond the red light—you ache to hear familiar heartbeats, but there’s nothing. Only the static _whirr_ of air conditioning and machinery.

The blood under your nails is _her_ blood—the fingernail marks on your arm are _hers_.

You’re going to be sick—you’re going to throw up.

You’re alone—absolutely and completely alone.

And it’s your fault.

You did this. You killed them.

You can remember how you’d woken up with her pressed into your chest, the sun sinking into your skin—making you powerful, making you real—and something had clicked. Some little fizzle of noise, and something had snapped—all you heard was static, white noise between your ears as you wrapped fingers around her throat. Fingers that are strong enough to crush solid steel, she’d scratched and dug, and you can’t remember if she’d said anything. There had only been a little voice saying nothing was real— _this love isn’t real, she isn’t real_ —and you shouldn’t worry.

So you didn’t.

For days, and weeks, and months—years even—you didn’t worry, you didn’t feel. People tried to make you, tried to catch your eyes and plead for remembrance, but there’d been nothing. Death doesn’t remember, death doesn’t pick sides—it just _is_.

And you were.

Until—until—

“It wasn’t you,” he’s saying, but there’s something lingering and dark in his eyes. Maybe he can smell the blood on your hands—under your nails—like you can. The hint and promise of who it belonged to.

Her, them— _everyone._

Black on gray in red—red gone black on gray.

Then the world tilts—on its axis, in your mind, everywhere but when your fingers slip through the puddle on the floor, just under your knees. It crawls, growing bit by bit.

You’re numb—you’re empty.

You’re alone—and everything goes black.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on tumblr @ **civilorange**.


End file.
